


To Reforge

by northremembers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Game of Thrones RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cheating, F/M, Jealousy, Multi, Politics, Post-Season/Series Finale, Power Dynamics, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Winterfell, Women In Power, and the threat to jon's heart, sansa is the real threat for the iron throne, watch out for the lady of winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-01-15 11:04:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12319752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northremembers/pseuds/northremembers
Summary: “Lord Varys has told me the Northern folk have many names for you" Daenerys's words were careful, deliberate. "Lady Winterfell, Lady Stark, Queen in the North, The Queen.”





	1. A Queen's Mercy

In the days that led to the Great War, the air held such a hurried mist of forthcoming grief, fear, and necessity that Sansa had never looked to anything else. Even if upon Jon’s return, she was no longer reigning Queen of the North—due to his return and his choice of actions far from Winterfell—she was still the Lady of Winterfell, and it was her duty to send her banner men to war prepared.

            In this time, the snow fluttered down almost violently. It coated all of Winterfell in a brilliant shimmer. Most beautiful was the way it made the Dragon Queen’s white hair gleam as she strutted around the land she now claimed. _She herself looks like winter_ , Sansa when she caught a glance of Daenerys shivering from hall to hall, _yet her heart is fire and all she has known is the sun and sand of lands so far from here._ Sansa knew she herself looked far more like a summer child than this foreign queen. It made her heart ache.

When Sansa came back to reclaim Winterfell, she was most regretful her Tully appearance. If she was born looking like Arya or Jon, if she had not been the bride to two enemies, maybe they would have first rallied to her, not her brother—nay, her _cousin_. Sansa would never betray Jon, but despite his Northern complexion he fell for foreign charms the moment he stepped south of Winterfell’s walls. Sansa wondered what Jon saw in Daenerys as a queen and a lover. The rumors she had heard she could pass off as slander, but the voices emerging from the Great Hall that day had been proof.

            _“Aye the tits on that one, I guess all the ‘honorable’ Stark men fall for a lass like that sooner or later”_

_Laughter roared through the cracks of the Great Hall. Did they want their lady to hear such vulgarities or were they stupid enough to think their hardy shouts would not be picked up on?_

_“But you forget, the noble man is only half Stark. His House is all Targaryen. If I were him, I’d be burying my hilt in a woman of the winter, a certain Lady Sa—“_

_“That is enough” A firm, familiar voice rang above the crudeness. “Never even_ think _of your Lady in such a way ever_ _again, or I will have both your heads” The voice was a growl, more animalistic than Sansa had ever heard it. Just the tone itself felt as though it could choke a man._

_“Of course, my King,”_

            Sansa had fled immediately after hearing the exchange. She did not know what angered her more, the men’s filthy depiction of two ladies, Jon’s having lied to her about the truth of his relationship with is queen, or something else entirely. She realized it made far more sense now. The way he had Winterfell’s finest metal workers mend a temporary throne over swords. Iron _cannot be used to kill what is already dead. We can spare some._ The way he had given up his own council in the Great Hall for Daenerys’s court. _It will not be long before we are off. Daenerys needs to hold audience in the North. They need to know her._ The way he insisted on giving her a room so near to both their own residencies instead of the formal guest quarters. _This is no normal war. There is no protocol for this. Strategy must be discussed at all times._

Sansa diligently scanned over reports on what rations should be sent to the Wall or remain in Winterfell. The day was warmer than it had been in quite some time. It was as if the dragons soaring above had melted the heaviest of the snowfall from the sky. She chose to take office outside where she could watch her men train, prepare; where they could feel her presence and support. She could easily work through the sounds of the castle, but each mention of one of her brother’s or his queen’s various names made her ears prickle.

            “I spoke to Ser Mormont, and he has agreed to let me reforge Long Claw” Sansa looked up from her reports. Jon’s presence sent a pang in her chest as did the confusion of his words. Where the snow turned his lover to a sheet of ice, Jon somehow looked warmer with the flakes strewn throughout his curls. They looked almost like strands of aged hair. She could almost imagine a future where Jon grew old and happy as the head of their House, as the King of the North, but he had sworn it away. Sansa was certain that if he survived the Long Night, Jon would be forced to leave his home for Daenerys’s throne. “Only a slight moderation. Several bits of steel will make no difference between my life in death in the War of the Dawn, but a slight Valerian blade may save you if I fail—“

            “Jon,” She reached passed her desk and gripped his hand with a might unexpected of a Lady but far too common to Jon Snow. The fear of his death rang harder in her chest than the rage of his betrayal. He was offering her a piece of his beloved sword. A piece of himself. It could mean nothing, but a belief in impending doom. Surprising compared to how much he was fighting it. “Do not say such things.”

            Sansa swore she caught a glance of something whiter than the ice passing, watching in the walkways above. It was not surprising. It seemed that when Jon or Daenerys was seen, the other was not far behind. Just like Jon and Ghost.

            “Sansa, I am being realistic, _you_ must be realistic. How likely do you think it is that Cersei will supply her best men to the cause? How likely is it that the paid Southern soldiers will touch a bit of snow and fear the frost all the way back to their summer lands? I am leaving behind men to protect Winterfell and the North, but before I leave I must know you can defend yourself” He squeezed Sansa’s hand back with an unexpected gentleness for a warrior, but Sansa knew it well. At least she did before he left. He glanced towards Sansa’s work, raising his brows in request to see it.

            Sansa paused then gave a curt nod. He took the papers into his hands, reading them with a furrowed brow. The same brow he possessed when he listened so intently to all the North’s men and women, the same concentration he held as Sansa told him what really happened in Winterfell before they retook it. The same concentration that made all the Northern men rally to him, dark and solemn as any full-blooded Stark’s.  “Sansa, Winterfell cannot afford to give up so much supply,”

            “Nor can our armies afford to starve to death before even making it passed the Wall” She retorted, reaching to snatch the papers back from Jon. He did not consult her on so many of his decisions. Why should she?

            Jon’s voice raised slightly as it always did when they so often quarreled. The argument now reminded her almost of the ones they had had before he left. When they trusted each other, when they relief on each other. She realized now that this was their first informal conversation since he had left Winterfell. “Aye, but what is the point of an army if the men it is sworn to protect have all starved themselves?”

            Sansa prepared a fierce retort, ready to defend her right to protect her men, to protect _him_.

            “I can have all the cities in Slaver’s Bay send in supplies. All Winterfell will need are supplies to last until they arrive, so a month, maybe two’s rations. No more. The rest will be sent with us as we move North.” The Dragon Queen moved to a post next to Jon. She was far shorter than the stories of her would lead one to believe. The Mother of Dragons, the Last Targaryen, she was no taller than Arya. It almost humanized her up until one heard the distant cries of her children.

            Jon hesitated, unclasping his hand from Sansa’s before he nodded. “Thank you for your mercy, my Queen.”

            Daenerys continued, “It is the least I can do, Jon.” The inappropriateness of the title should have been shocking. It should have seemed like a slight towards Jon’s position—denounced from King to a simple ‘Jon’ as he had once been—but instead, gave Sansa a sense of unease. This was no diminishment of Jon, but a pair of lovers’ banter.

            As the two left together, the dreadful feeling only worsened.


	2. The Solar After Supper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys announces that she will gift the North with supplies. The Northern lord's distrust of the foreign queen and the former King of the North grows louder. Sansa is really starting to see how something has changed in Jon, and for the first time, she sees the Dragon Queen as someone human.

            Sansa’s work never finished. She was not the Lady of Winterfell merely in title or duty but wholly in identity. She spent her measly free time stitching the Stark sigil into the leather she insisted coat her men’s armor. _The Dead see no enemy but those with red blood, but this way my men will feel my heart is always with them._ Sansa refused to sit still. She refused to guzzle wine into a useless, spiteful state as she had seen Cersei do time and time again. She refused to ensure loyalty through fear as Cersei told her a Queen must. Old, dead thoughts flew through her head once more. _If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me._

Hours after Daenerys’s rather informal declaration of her Essos territories’ support, the Dragon Queen made her official announcement to her Northern court. Sansa sat along one of the smaller wooden chairs that sat in line with the impromptu iron throne as Daenerys beamed of her compassion and mercy. Had she been back in Essos amongst freed slaves the cheers and applause would have sounded throughout the land to boast of a true leader. Had she been in King’s Landing the men would have bowed to honor their new, good Queen. But Daenerys was not in the South nor the East. There was not a moment’s pause before the Northern interrogation began.

            _It is winter, Your Grace, the cold will only worsen. How do you expect supplies to arrive in in_ _Winterfell so little as a month?_

_What could Slaver’s Bay even send us? Silk? Wine? Gold? Essosi supplies would not fair a Northern summer much less the Long Night._

_What of Cersei? Why would the Southern bitch allow such supplies to get to the North? Where are the troops you say she promised?_

Sansa could see Daenerys resolve waver. Her former subjects all submitted wholly to her. All her subjects believed in their savior, the unburnt. Now she was trying to govern the Northern lords who had seen no miracles arise from Daenerys’s presence. Lords that desired nothing more than freedom. Lords that would have earned this independence had the Dragon Queen not shown up and persuaded their King. The Targaryens had claimed their lands generations ago, and just a generation ago the House burned alive the head and his heir of the House Stark. The North remembered. The North would not let go.

            Even before Jon’s letter came signed Warden and not King, the Northern lords had begun voicing their doubt in him. They quieted as they heard the cries of the giant beasts in the sky, but now, whispers ran rampant. They insisted that they were tricked. They would never have supported a Targaryen. _His bending the knee makes all the more sense. A son of Eddard Stark would never bend, but a son of Lyanna? She was wild. She bent more than a knee to a southern house._ Sansa’s stomach churned at house easily they abandoned all loyalty to Jon. She hated how they spoke so hatefully of the so beloved, so thoroughly grieved Daughter of Winterfell.

Still, she did not move to silence such treasonous words. _We did not choose you to rule us, My Lady, but perhaps we should have._ Arya had hated her for the gentle way she had once condemned such treachery, but now, she too was quiet. She too looked at Jon with undying love but little trust. Sansa may not have once been much of a Northerner, but now after so many years, she proved her devotion to Winterfell. The opposite appeared true for Jon. Especially in the eyes of a girl who had seen the world in her former brother’s grey eyes.

Everyone knew of the threat beyond the Wall, but how necessary was the loss of the North’s independence in defeating the dead? After all, Sansa had heard of the surprise in King’s Landing amongst even Daenerys’s Hand when Jon declared that he could not remain neutral. It seemed very well possible that Jon had only bent his knee _after_ Daenerys offered her troops. _But why?_ Sansa, although she had never experienced it, had heard women often fell for men after they shared a bed. However, the Dragon Queen seemed far too independent of a woman to swoon so easily to a handsome warrior _. Jon though…?_ In the Northern King’s absence, Tormund told bittersweet stories of his time with Jon beyond the Wall. Tormund spoke of a lass he had known that was Jon’s just as much as Jon was hers. Although, Tormund did not speak so kindly. His words set a wave of nausea to Sansa’s gut. She need not hear of Jon in such a way, but in knowing this, it furthered her thoughts of Jon’s weakness.

 

Since Jon left, Sansa had taken to eating amongst the lords of the North. Until his death, Littlefinger sat by her side, whispering plans into her year. Upon his execution, Arya took his spot. Never before had Sansa chosen to sit near her sister, but now, no matter how odd she was or had become, Sansa wanted what remained of her family near her. Even the always emotionless Bran held a place each night at Sansa’s table.

The Hall was always crowded now. This was especially the case at Lady Stark’s table, but Sansa knew she would make room for Jon as soon as he returned. She knew he would have it no other way, yet, when he returned with the Dragon Queen, he began to sit at her table amongst her advisors. Jon insisted that Sansa join them there. The Lady of Winterfell deserved a spot amongst all the high ranking leaders of the living. Now even supper was designated for preparations, but still, Sansa refused this new seat. _My mother was a Tully, and I intend to honor this. Family is first. I intend to sit amongst mine._

Today was no different of a day. The seats at Sansa’s table were already filled. The lords invited to her table always arriving slightly early to earn a spot closer to her ears. In this way, they were no different than the Southern lords. The only one who did not bother was little Lady Mormont. Jon began his stride to the long table reserved for Daenerys’s counsellors, but suddenly stopped by the Lady Stark’s seat.

“My Lords,” Jon announced to the table. “And My Ladies,” He winked at Arya then trained his gaze upon Sansa.

A grumble of greetings were retorted by the lords. Sansa listened with an odd sense of pleasure. This roughness even in formalities had once disturbed Sansa. The songs she had so dearly loved told of elegant knights not harsh, rowdy ones, yet now, she found much comfort in the gruffness. There was no hidden meaning in their words. They did little to hide their true desires. They held honor higher than personal gain. In the South, men like this met horrific fates. The only one she had ever seen return with his head was Jon.

Sansa looked at him, confusion hidden behind a welcoming nod. She glanced then to the other table where Daenerys would be seated.

Jon seemed to have followed her gaze because as soon as she turned back towards her table she felt his dark eyes on her. He reached for her hand as he had once been so prone to do—an action that felt wildly out of place here but for which she accepted—and in it, she felt the crunch of parchment. He squeezed her hand and left.

_Meet me in my solar after supper._

His writing held little explanation. An annoying trait for which Sansa had still not grown accustomed to. He was a man of few words and even fewer words written. It was one of the only flaws she had a hard time forgiving in Jon.

Sansa immediately feared something may have happened with the Dragon Queen. She gobbled her meal at an almost not-so-lady-like pace in her hurry to find out. She listened dully to the conversations surrounding her, all the while worrying why her brother had so suddenly sook her out.

She moved quickly through the halls leading to Jon’s room. She dismissed Brienne back at supper so as to ensure privacy. When she opened the door to her cousin’s room though, all she found was him stoking a fire and cradling a cup of ale in his fist.

“Jon,” Her thoughts were confused, worried, agitated, but he voice rang firm. “What is this about?”

Jon looked up at her from his perch by the flames. His face was cast in shifting shadows, yet Sansa was certain that even in the light she would not be able to read him. Something had shifted in his manners since his return. She did not truly know what happened while he was gone or how the knowledge of his parentage was changing him now. He lifted his glass and offered, “Ale?”

Jon gave Sansa little explanation that night. He quietly spoke of trivial topics, a feat for which she had never seen the constantly brooding fellow take part in. He requested another coat for the war to come just like the one she had made for him back at the Wall.  He questioned whether the dire wolf along the hilt of Sansa’s almost finished Valerian dagger should resemble the late Lady or match that of his own sword. Sansa found the evening nearly silly. Much more so than she had ever known Jon to be even in their rare time together as children. Maybe it was Sansa’s newly found Northern confidence. Maybe it was her pity for the man whose Snow identity had previously defined him. Maybe it was the sadness that came with no longer trusting her brother enough to discuss real issues with him, but she gladly accepted the unnecessary pleasure of their chat in the solar. Sansa stayed long after the embers of the original logs burned, long past the last drops of their first jug of ale.

            Sansa knew the full weight of her question, but she allowed the flush of her cheeks to soften its meaning. “Where will you go?”

            Jon swallowed the heavy sip of ale that had just passed his lips. They both so hated the sweet Southern wine. Sansa had seen the clutch it had been for Cersei Lannister. Jon had known the immorality that stemmed from such fancy folk. In choosing ale, the two were solidifying to themselves that they were true Northerners. Even if one was born in Dorne a Targaryen. Even if the other had been married to two Southern lords and betrothed to one of their princes. “Where will _we_ go,” Jon corrected. No longer justifying the words with the threat of Ned Stark’s ghost. “You asked me once before and the answer remains the same. We are family.”

            “Family,” Jon was more than a Stark now though. Even if he preferred not to admit it, he was a Targaryen. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_. Did this sentiment remain true for him even through the knowledge of his true parentage? Even though he warmed a dragon’s bed? If he was still at least part Stark, how did he justify selling their home to a foreign invader? Her mind darted, but all Sansa willed herself to say though was “But what of the Dragon Queen?”

 A seemingly large pause hovered over the solar. Sansa drowned it with a long gulp. Since they first drank together at the Wall, Sansa had learned to down her liquor like a Northern lord—nay, a Northern stable boy.

            “Daenerys?” The familiarity caused Sansa’s heart to clench. Jon’s face fell once again into an expression she could not recognize. Their closeness had not formed until after she found him at the Wall. She knew only how he was when he experienced those emotions. Hope, joy, pain, fear, anger, frustration. This was not even of those. Drunkenness let words spill from his quiet, brooding mouth. “She will return to her House’s—” Jon sighed, shaking his head and sipping ale. “Our house’s rightful place on the Iron Throne.”

            “And you expect her to suddenly be done with you?” Jon’s brow furrowed. Sansa took the look for an odd form of confusion. “Yes, Jon. If Littlefinger taught me anything” Sansa could see Jon’s knuckles turn white around his cup. “It was to not let anything throughout all of Westeros occur without my knowledge. Much less things in my own home. I know you bent more than your knee to your Queen while you were away”

            “Sansa…”

            “Your bed is none of my business, but your decisions on the North are. You had no right to swear the North to her, but as for yourself…Daenerys is a fine woman. The dragon fire in both your veins probably sets the whole bed ablaze. She is—”

            His hand reached out faster than Arya’s swing of Needle. He gripped her wrist—in that moment she thought he meant to break it—but just as soon as the sharp pain came, it faded. He loosened his grip. _Jon is not Ramsey or Jeffery or even Robin. He would never hurt me. Not in this way._ He looked at Sansa in a way he never had, or maybe it was just the ale muddling her mind and her understanding of her former brother. Something in his gaze felt like as hot as fire. Maybe he was filling into his part as a Targaryen. Barely a whisper he spoke. “No…”

            A knock, followed by no announcement, no formalities by the King’s Guard— _this is how easy their affair had become_ —Daenerys entered. The Queen opened her lips as if to speak but decided not to.

            Sansa swore she saw Jon’s entire body tighten—or maybe she was just projecting her own discomfort—as he pulled away. She mimicked his sudden change in stature by pulling her hands into her lap and standing.

            “My Queen—“

            “Your Highness,” Their voices came together. Jon’s marked the Dragon Queen’s rule. Declaring his decision, his total loyalty to her _._  Sansa’s marking her Excellency, the extraordinary way she came to Westeros, to Winterfell. Not her allegiance.

            The foreign queen’s beautiful face changed. She appeared almost vulnerable. Sansa was struck with the reality that the great Daenerys Targaryen held no family, no equal, no living blood except for Jon. Sansa’s Jon. The queen may have had a thousand titles, a birthright, an army, two dragons, but here, in this room, Sansa realized she was nothing more than a girl not much older than herself.

            Almost in unison, Jon and Sansa tried to respond, but Sansa’s voice won out. She would not allow Jon to make another decision for her regarding this queen. “I have become quite weary. It is time for me retire.”

            Jon only looked at her. Whatever he was about to say faded from existence. Sansa was, for the thousandth time, reminded once again that she was only Jon’s sister—no, cousin. She was reminded once again that his devotion to her extended no further than now weakened familial ties. That they had hated each other as children. That even if he promised her that they were family, the name of one’s House extends from the father. He was a Targaryen to the world. He was not hers.

            “Enjoy the last of the evening’s warmth.” Sansa finished. She cast a quick look towards Daenerys. She could not tell if she saw pity, envy, or understanding in her violet eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder to everyone who reads this. I am writing from Sansa's POV so every opinion and observation is tainted with how I am writing her to respond to this situation. Other than that, thank you so much for reading this! Just a heads up to all whether you like it or not, Daenerys is going to become a more real character in the next chapter. These past two chapters are written in an attempt to set up the dynamic of Winterfell post season 7 and post-Jon's return with Danerys. More characters are coming and the dynamic between three very powerful, very young Thrones players will continue getting heated. Stay tuned! Love you all!


	3. Unwelcomed Chatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa awakens early. Someone stops her from continuing to her normal duties.

            Sansa awoke early the next morning as she often now did. The dawn was so quiet, it was one of the few times whispers did not cover Winterfell as much as the snow did. The air was freezing cold so early in the morning. Sometimes even colder than it became when the sun fell at night. Only a true Northerner could face the chill of such a frost.

 Jon was usually awake at this time too, drilling his men, giving his orders. Today he was nowhere to be found. Not that Sansa minded, the fewer souls the easier to think.

            As soon as she was dressed, she made her way to the kitchens. Sansa was grateful not to have to break her fast amongst the many lords and knights. Despite their loyalty and desire to always accompany her, their desire and loyalty to their beds and any pleasures they may stem from the night won out on such early mornings. This was one of her few times she got to spend primarily with other ladies. All her work was in governing, not the feminine tasks a Lady was so aptly destined for. Sansa still made time to needlepoint, but she stitched alone. These early mornings she was fortunate enough to spend with the kitchen maids. Many of whom she could not remember from her primitive days in Winterfell, but many of whom had nursed her womanly wounds and cooed reminders of Northern remembrance as Sansa’s reserve turned to steel.

            This morning, she hoped would be no different than the others. She wished to grab her meal, bid the maids soft chatter, and be on her way to the Godswood. The early morning was the one time she was able to go there in peace as Bran had taken over the wood. Despite her love for him, his presence made her uneasy. Especially when all she wanted to do in the Godswood was mourn the Stark ghosts. Most of Winterfell was now occupied by strangers. The Godswood was still home to the Old Gods and the Old Gods only. She could ignore the horror of her wedding there if it meant recalling her father’s prayer.

            “Lady Sansa,” A young lady shifted into the shadows as she moved away from the eunuch. “It is not enough I find a Lady of such status roaming the kitchens so early in the morning if ever.”

            Sansa did not turn to Varys until she properly thanked the young maid who offered Sansa her breakfast. She did not care much if at all for Varys. He reminded her too much of Littlefinger. She could still remember how Lord Baelish had warned her of the Spider, of his web of lies and spies, of the way he came from nothing and still continued his ascent, of how he was dangerous, a man with neither limits nor nether regions. However crude his words were, Littlefinger’s warning was right. Sansa was only able to beat Petyr due to her understanding of his lust. Varys could not lust and thus his motives were entirely unknown.

            “Normalcy died the moment the Long Night returned”

            Varys’s eyes felt as though they could see all the way to her very soul. She shifted under his gaze as he began again. “You trust your brother—“

            “Cousin,” Varys’s face changed ever-so-slightly when Sansa made the correction.   “Cousin,” He repeated then continued. “You trust him so completely. Any other child of noble birth would think his words nothing more than a septa’s tale, yet without even seeing those creatures, you believe him.”

            _Trust and belief are two different things,_ Sansa thought dimly. “Jon is as earnest as he is brave. He would gain nothing from lying to the North. And,” Sansa added, making her disdain clear. “Northerners have no desire to use tricks or play games as so many foreigners seem to always employ.”

            “Ah yes, Northerners, admirable even until it brings them a terrible, Southern death.” Sansa sunk fingernails into flesh. “I have never been able to properly pay my condolences for the horrors that occurred against your family.” For once, Sansa thought, Varys sounded almost entirely sincere. “I knew only whispers of the bravery of your brothers, but I knew your mother and father to be two of the most commendable people I have ever met. I am glad you have managed to escape such terrible fates even as I wonder how you managed it.”

            _You have to be smarter than Father. You need to be smarter than Robb. I loved them, I miss them, but they made stupid mistakes, and they both lost their heads for it._ Sansa’s words replayed in her head. Sansa did not mention the confidential words she relayed to her brother nor the horrors she was certain Varys had heard she had herself managed. She did nothing to quell nor exacerbate the questioning blame Varys laced in his words. “I must be off, Lord Varys.”

            “Oh, as do I.” He gestured to the plate being finished nearby by the maid he had been earlier speaking to. “I mustn’t keep our Queen waiting.”

            Sansa furrowed her brow. “My Lord, you deliver the Queen her food?”

            “Not often, but I fear without a friendly face delivering her meal, she may not even eat. I hear you and her both had a long last night. I do not want our Dragon Queen to affirm her title in a fiery way”

            A cold feeling spread through Sansa’s chest. It had been so few hours since the past night, yet the information had already graced Varys’s ears. She wondered if the slight maid he had spoken to was the same girl Sansa had passed in her rush to her room last night, or if one of the newly sworn knights’ lips were not so tightly sealed, or if it were the walls themselves that whispered such truths to the Spider’s ears.

            More than that, Sansa wondered what the eunuch’s motives were. Sansa could have guessed without such talk of his Queen that his loyalty was not all to Daenerys Stormborn, but she lacked an understanding of what they could be. What did he benefit from revealing this to Sansa? Why would he risk upsetting his Queen with such slander? Was he just a man that doubted a woman’s capability to rule, or Daenerys’s individual capacity to remain calm? Or was this a trick of Daenerys?

            “Have a nice day, Lady Stark. I look forward to speaking very soon. I must say, you do interest me.”

            With a curt nod, Sansa made her way towards the Godswood.


	4. Northern Ruler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes the Godswoods and is confronted by someone about the need for a leader. A raven arrives with important news.

The Northern snow was harsh. It froze the tip of Sansa’s nose to a ragged rosy color and made the supple skin of her cheek begin to peel. She always had feared this as a girl: the way the cold air could erode all that was soft and tender of a woman. Compared to the exquisitely delicate Southern ladies, Northern woman looked terribly bleak, aged, and weary. The first time Sansa had realized this she began to cry. Arya teased Sansa senseless for her tears which only made Sansa sob harder. Upon seeing her daughter so distraught, Catelyn pulled Sansa into the Lord’s chamber. Sansa laid upon her Lady mother’s lap as Catelyn cooed her daughter to ease.

_“Do you think me ugly, Sansa?” She asked after Sansa’s cries began to quiet. Catelyn delicate fingers combed through Sansa’s auburn hair._

_“Of course not,” Sansa could not believe her mother could even ask her this. “You are beautiful”_

_“But I have seen a Northern Winter” Catelyn touched her own cheek as she spoke, tracing the lines that had come from a combination of maternal worry, the stress of being the Lady of a Great House, and yes, a few frigid winters. “Not as many as all the Northern-born ladies, but I have seen my fair share of Northern Winters, and you know what, my dear?”_

_Sansa turned her head so she could look into her mother’s eyes. She knew her own eyes reflected the same blue shade back. Sansa was a Northern child, but she did not look it. “What?”_

_“I am grateful for each mark the North has left upon me,” She traced a gentle line down Sansa’s youthful face. “To be a Northern Lady is a beautiful thing”_

The moment stuck with Sansa, but, although it silenced her for that moment, she still despised the idea of her appearance turning harsh. She feared what a Southern prince would think of a girl whose face was marred so rugged. When Catelyn saw this continued anguish, she simply insisted that one day Sansa would learn to understand. That she too would be proud of each and every scar that made her who she was: a Daughter of Winterfell. Today was the first day she knew exactly what her mother had meant.

Sansa tugged her furs closer to her. She did not mind being cold so much, but each day it became much harder to bare. Each breath she took felt like winter itself was clasping its fingers about her throat. Sansa knew it had to be because this was no ordinary winter. This had to be worse than any winter her parents had ever described. Sansa knew that as a child of a long summer, the winter would be much harder to adapt, and it was, but this was something harsher. Winter had come already, so why did each day feel like the cold was only coming closer?

Sansa wondered how the Wildlings were managing at Eastwatch. If it was so frigid here it must be a frozen Hell there. Wildling or not she could not imagine how they survived.

Past the roar of the icy winds, Sansa could hear the scraping of steel against cloth and stone. The sound grew faintly louder as she neared the heart tree. It reminded her terribly of the sound of her father polishing Ice. The moment she saw Arya she smiled.

“Knowing your habits, it won’t make much of a difference how shiny Needle is. It’ll be filthy once again by nightfall” Sansa remarked.

Arya held up her blade to study. “Not likely amongst this lot, it doesn’t take much to bring these men down”

The reflection of Arya’s smile shown across the thin steel of Needle. It reminded Sansa so much of their late father.  “Why did you come all this way to polish your blade?” Arya was not the sentimental type. It was unlikely she came for the same reasons Sansa did. “Shouldn’t you be out sparring with Jon? If you are so certain you can beat our men, you should at least teach them how to make it less likely.”

“I came here hoping to find you”

Sansa was perplexed. She was often caught up in some business, but Arya could speak to her at any time. Sansa’s sister was not one to wait for others, nor did Sansa often now put anything above her family. “You have found me.”

“All of us have suffered, and all of us have changed. I do not recognize a single one of the children who left Winterfell all those years ago.”

“Nor do I” Sansa replied. All of them returned with such odd titles: “No One”, “Three-eyed Raven”, “Aegon Targaryen”.

“You suffered the most, but I must say, your change was the best. I prefer competent, courageous, compassionate Sansa.”

Sansa laughed quietly, shaking her head. “I prefer mature Sansa as well.”

Arya did not wait for a beat to continue. “’The pack survives’, and every pack has a leader.” Arya finally tucked the cloth she used to polish her sword into her breeches and looked up from her sword. “The North needs its own leader”

“The North has Jon as a leader.”

 “The North _had_ Jon, but Jon is the Dragon Queen’s now.” Arya did not say it, but Sansa could feel her meaning. Arya loved Jon. More than she ever loved Sansa. Perhaps more than Arya ever loved anyone else. Arya had shielded Jon when word of his surrender came to Winterfell.  Arya had defended Jon when rumors started about Winterfell that Jon had bent more than a knee to Daenerys. But no one could deny the way Jon and the Mother of Dragons looked at each other as they rode beside each other into Winterfell. Upon their father’s death, Arya had dedicated her life to avenging the Starks, but her cherished Jon had betrayed this entirely. He gave away the very freedom Robb, Catelyn, and most of the Stark forces died for and to the very daughter of the man who murdered both their grandfather and uncle. All that Arya had once feared the once naïve, idealistic Sansa would do, her favored brother had done himself.

After a long pause, Arya began again. “The Northern lords chose Jon, but that was before they knew his parentage, before they knew of his lust, before they even knew he had given up their independence. And even prior to these events, they knew they had made a mistake. They knew their true leader was meant to be the trueborn Stark that sat before them. ”

Sansa’s heart began to thump harder. “Arya, they may doubt Jon, but they cannot doubt that Daenerys has not only an army of some of the greatest warriors but two dragons.”

Arya stood. She was much shorter than Sansa, but the certainty in her stance made her appear much larger. “The North would rather burn under the rule of a Northern ruler than under the rage of a mad one”

A quiet pause filled the space between the two sisters. Sansa opened her mouth to respond, the approaching crunch of snow stopped her.

“My Lady,” Maester Wolkan’s eyes travelled to Arya, and after a beat added another, hesitant. “Lady Arya. I am sorry to interrupt. I know how you value your time in the Godswood is, but a raven just arrived. It would do you well to be the first to hear the news.”

“And what news is this?” Sansa moved towards the Maester, taking the scroll from his hands.

“Jaime Lannister was spotted less than two day’s ride from Winterfell.”

Sansa looked to the Maester, dreading the answer she warned Jon she would get to the question she still had to get. “Alone?”

“Aye, My Lady, alone”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed getting to see yet another familiar face. Thank you all for reading! Please let me know what you think.


	5. The Courtyard

            Sansa had to break the news to Jon, but first, she wanted to tell the one person in Winterfell who knew anything of the King Slayer: her Queensguard, Brienne of Tarth. Sansa needed to get an understanding of the man before he arrived. She had heard many stories of him—after all, who hadn’t? Her father would mention the man politely. Littlefinger spoke of him with slight admiration, slight pity, and slight disdain. All opinions she knew were coated in bias. Sansa knew that Brienne’s version of Jaime would be no different. It was obvious to Sansa that Brienne looked upon Jaime with great fondness, but within this fondness, she hoped to hear some truth. And, of course, a way for Sansa to properly greet the knight.

            All Sansa really knew of Jaime consisted of the following. She knew he was Cersei’s lover. She knew he was compliant to Sansa’s treatment in King’s Landing. She knew he lost his fighting hand and had not much recovered since. She knew Catelyn had freed him to save Sansa and Arya, but that plan had evidently failed. She knew Brienne spent a short time with the man, and in that time, Brienne believe she saw the true Jaime Lannister. Sansa feared that Brienne’s view of him was clouded, but Brienne told her that it had been Jaime that sent Brienne to find Sansa. She decided she would give the man a chance and hope that, at least, even with one hand, his legendary fighting skills were still intact. One more fighting man was better than none in the War to come.

            Sansa entered the courtyard alone. Arya had left her soon after the Maester arrived with a look in her eye that Sansa truly feared. The Maester left Sansa as well. As the two reentered Winterfell, they parted to carry out their duties. The Maester was constantly busy. Besides his duties with the ravens constantly fluttering through the cold, gray sky, he was bound to heal the aches and bruises of the sparring fighters and prepare elixirs to do just that once they left.

            Sansa admired those who fought. It warmed her to see handful of woman in her view. She passed Lyanna fighting with a vigor surprising for her height but not for her words. She saw Arya, hands twisted around the hilt of her blade, but with her lips twisted into a slight smile. She stood beside a much taller boy Sansa did not know personally but had heard of. Gendry, Robert Baratheon’s bastard son. He had fought beside Jon when the Dragon Queen had sent him out on that ridiculous mission to capture a Wight. By the look of it, Gendry had fought beside Arya at some point as well. With the amount of coincidental meetings throughout the country, one would think Westeros was but the size of the Iron Islands.

            Arya met Sansa’s staring eye and gave a slight nod. That look Sansa saw in the Godswood was still there, but then her face was contorted in a laugh Sansa could almost hear passed the resounding clash of dull steel and loud grunts. It was nice to see a Stark almost happy. It had been so long. In that moment, Sansa could almost imagine that nothing had changed. That the years had passed and Eddard Stark was still watching from the walkways above. That if Sansa turned around Robb would have a teasing grin upon his face as he attempted to finally bring the final blow down upon their presumed half-brother. That Bran would be climbing a tree he was not supposed to and Catelyn would be there to scold him and Rickon would be trailing her. She wished these were the only ghosts that haunted Winterfell.

            Finally, Sansa came across Brienne. Her icy hair was slicked back in sweat, her brow furrowed in determination. It was times like this when Sansa almost wished she was like Arya. She wished she was a fighter. So brave, so strong, so fierce. Arya would never have let their father have been killed right in front of her, she never would have married the imp or that monster. She never would have been in the tragedy Sansa ended up in, but, then again, here Arya was, back in Winterfell. Bruised, beaten, but back. Ready to die for her home.

            When Brienne delivered the final blow, lifting her head in a modest pride, she noticed Sansa’s approach. Brienne bowed her head. “My Lady”

            Sansa gave a curt nod. “A raven came this morning. Ser Jaime will be arriving at Winterfell in two days.”

            Brienne opened her mouth to speak then shut it. She knew by Sansa’s look that the deal she had helped make in King’s Landing was forfeit. “Should I go greet him, my Lady?”

            “No, I need you to prepare for his arrival. You know him. You know how to handle him. Pick out a room for him so that he remains comfortable, but insure that his quarters are close to ours. I want eyes on him at all times, but only our eyes.”

            “Yes, my Lady,”

            As Brienne moved to lift her sword, Sansa spoke again. “I need you by my side when he comes.”

            Brienne looked at her Lady. “Of course, my Lady” Brienne was the most loyal person Sansa had ever known. She still regretted not leaving with her the first time she offered.

           Sansa continued through the courtyard. She knew Jon was on the other side, taking extra care of preparing the least sword-wise men. Even at a distance, Sansa could admire how his dark mane glowed in sweat and snowflakes. His movements were reminiscent of how Sansa imagined the princes and knights from the songs she used to love would fight.  

            Her walk was stopped by a familiar voice. “Lady Sansa, you have made quite a name for yourself since you shed mine”

            As Sansa turned around, she took in Tyrion’s face for the first time since she so abruptly left her supposed husband. He hid the scar that marred his cheek under a thick blond beard. She could not imagine why. His scar made him a hero. Seeing it would prompt whispers of bravery. She wished she had the same issue.

            Sansa paused as she considered her next words. Tyrion was once her husband, ally maybe even, but now, he was faithful to the Dragon Queen. “Shedding Lannister loyalty has done us both well. ‘Hand of the Queen’, who would have thought you would ever regain the title, to a Targaryen no less.”

            Tyrion smirked lightly. “I certainly did not. But what is even more spectacular, Sansa Stark, back home and rightful station. A surprise to all but those who know your cunning.” The compliment made Sansa weary. She wondered if Tyrion resented her for how she left him.  Tyrion licked his lips, his voice turning more serious than she had ever heard it. “Sansa, I am terribly sorry about what I allowed to happen in King’s Landing and for what happened here, in Winterfell.”

            Sansa was a little surprised, largely uncomfortable. She wanted nothing more than to switch the topic of conversation. “What do you want, Lord Tyrion?”

 “Our Queen,” He pauses, as if to watch Sansa’s reaction. Her face remains that of calm, but she straightens her back slightly. Her movement unruffled the dire wolf emblem across her chest. “Has requested an audience with the Lady Winterfell.”

            “Now?” The Targaryen and her entourage had been in Winterfell for nearly a moon, yet she had never before attempted to have a private audience with Sansa. The Dragon Queen’s sudden interest was a surprise. “What does she want?” Sansa asked.

            Tyrion smirked. “Lady Stark, you hold more appeal than you seem to know


	6. A Threatened Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Sansa finally talk. Conflict ensues.

           As a child, Sansa had had Old Nan recount her countless stories of beautiful southern ladies and dashing southern lords. The only Northern story she really knew was that of her dear late aunt Lyanna. Arya had loved to hear of the feisty girl she so resembled. During her own rape, Sansa often called upon the imagined strength of Lyanna in the Tower of Joy. Ironically, the flaming haired girl song had become more of a Northerner than the legendary Lyanna. She—unlike Lyanna or her son—had never and would never bend the knee to a Targaryen. Now Sansa was back in the same position as many of her family before her, but she would never make their same mistakes. She would never, could never fall to Targaryen threats or charm.

            “Your Grace” Sansa glided through the doorway of Daenerys’s chambers. The Dragon Queen’s room was situated in her own wing. The walls closed in tighter than any of the Starks’ rooms due to it not being near the Lords’ chambers. Sansa presumed Daenerys despised this fact, but she also presumed she spent most of her nights in the spacious quarters of Jon’s room. “You wished to see me.”

            “Lady Sansa,” Daenerys took a moment before looking away from the fire that burned beside her desk. The flames danced wildly across her lilac eyes. She gestured to the chair across from her as she took Sansa’s presence in. “Is that the appropriate way to address you?”

           Confused, Sansa paused as she moved towards the seat opposite Daenerys. It was odd to see Daenerys without her entourage or heightened seat. _For such a fearsome queen,_ Sansa thought, _Daenerys certainly was tiny_.

           Before Sansa could respond to the odd question, Daenerys continued. “It is a beautiful name, unquestionably. A strong Northern name, but I am uncertain it suits you.” She clasped her hands in her lap. A strong move, but Sansa thought it made her look stressed. “Lord Varys tells me the Northern folk have many names for you: Lady Winterfell, Lady Stark, Queen of the North, _The_ Queen.”

            Sansa gritted her teeth. Had someone overheard Arya and her in the Godswood? “Northerners will say many things. As I am sure you have noticed from Jon. But I assure you, the Northerners chose Jon as their King. I chose Jon as my King. ”

            “And Jon chose me as his Queen” Daenerys moved to pour the two ladies wine. Southern wine. The type her and Jon would make fun of. _Did he indulge in this drink when they spent their nights together? How much had this earnest man change to a Southern liar?_

             “That you seem to be.” The words were almost treasonous. Sansa had heard how Daenerys treated those who denied her. She awaited a reaction.

            Daenerys watched as Sansa denied the wine. She took a sip of her own glass before stating, “You Northerners would have my throat if my children’s cries went silent for even a moment.” Sansa nearly shuddered at the mention of Daenerys’s dragons as her offspring. “It is clear they will not have any foreign ruler despite what Jon insisted.”

            Sansa eyed the wine, almost reaching for it to quell her beating heart, but knowing she must stay completely alert. _How could John insist this? Does he not know the North?_

            “He loves you, you know” Daenerys said before taking an unceremoniously large gulp of wine. It reminded her of Cersei’s indulgence during the Battle of Blackwater. Sansa wondered what siege Daenerys was trying to dull today. She wondered if courtly talk was Daenerys’s worst weakness or if it was simply her desire for indulgence.

            “We grew up together. What brother does not love his sister?” Sansa felt entirely uncomfortable.

            “Jon has told me very little of his childhood, but from his omissions and Varys’s knowledge, I understand you did not share such a close bond as children. Nor did I with my brother. Although, up until he sold me, I presumed I would marry him.” She paused, as if waiting for a reaction out of Sansa. Each of Sansa’s conversations with one of Daenerys’s people seemed like a trap. This was no different.  “I know all too well that that is not a very Northern tradition, and although I do not have the same understanding of brother-sister relationships as you, it is not difficult to see he treats you far different than he does Arya.”

           Daenerys was playing the game. Sansa had not truly played since Littlefinger was gone. She despised the traps, the lies, the manipulation, yet in a way, it adrenalized her. This odd way Daenerys pressed her made the blood rush to her face. She hoped it would pass simply for the rawness of the cold. “You are quite observant, Your Grace, but I fear you are also quite presumptive.”

            Daenerys continued as though Sansa never spoke. “You learn a lot with a man like Varys by your side. And a man like Jon in your bed.” Sansa was shocked by Daenerys’s brusqueness. She crossed her legs beneath her skirts. “I have to admit though, I had never before known bedroom chatter to include talk of another woman.” Daenerys sighed. It sounded all too like Jon’s own heavy sigh. Sansa wondered if it was a Targaryen trait, or if all their time together had passed the habit onto Daenerys.

            Sansa tilted her chin. “Your Grace, what are you implying?”

            “Please,” She took a final sip of wine then placed the emptied glass down. Nothing but a few drops of dark liquid shimmered in the golden goblet. “Call me Daenerys. The time for formalities has _long_ since passed. We are in my chambers. Well, your chambers actually.” Daenerys moved to pour herself another drink then decided against it. “It appears as though as long as I remain north of Dragonstone, I am in your dominion. The Knights of the Vale look to you. One campaign into the Riverlands and its inhabitants will rally to give the land back to you. The North turned to you the moment your brother left, and now that he has returned with me as his Queen and relative, they turn all loyalty to you. I had thought Cersei Lannister was my enemy and Jon my ally, but I forgot to consider you.”

            Sansa was tentative of her situation. Daenerys felt threatened by her. Sansa had not seen her uncle and grandfather’s murder, but Sansa knew what caused it. “Daenerys,” Sansa’s words were slow. She needed to ensure the Mad King’s daughter would not snap at the informality. “Those lands are loyal to the North because the North will protect them. They want nothing but to survive. When you ride past the Wall with your dragons, they will all follow.”

            Daenerys looked towards the fire again. Sansa had never seen someone in such a high seat of power so openly agitated. It unsettled her. Power controlled most players of the game. Secrecy and cunning were most players’ weapons. Even a drunken Cersei or gluttonous Robert had never displayed such disturbance. Sansa suddenly thought she understood the moto “Fire and Blood.”

           “What is this about, Daenerys?” Sansa regained her nerve to continue. “It has been a near moon” _Yet you have not mobilized. You have not spoken to me. You have not ever taken any interest in me. You have done nothing but commanded my men, drunk my ale, fucked my cousin. “_ You could have commanded my presence at any time, yet here I am, only now.”

            “There have been no sightings of a Lannister army coming to our aid. Cersei will retake the half of the country you do not possess by the time I reach the Wall. I could have taken the country. If I had ignored Jon, King’s Landing would already be mine. Now, Viserion is dead. Most of my men are bound to die. All the Great Houses that pledged to me are dead.”

            “But Jon—“

            “Even if you considered Jon a Stark somehow. Even if he was capable of giving me the North. Even with him bending the knee to me, warming my bed…His heart belongs to the North and its Queen. He would never truly betray its wishes.”

            Sansa felt as if her heart would beat its way through her chest. She waited for Daenerys to continue.

            “He would never have admitted it to himself much less anyone else before he knew the truth. But now he does. Not only is he now far freer of guilt for wanting you, but he is far more guilty of ever having me. I may be his aunt, but I share more blood with him than a half-sister ever could.”

            “Your Grace—“

            “Please,” Daenerys finally looked back towards Sansa. Her eyes were glistening, and Sansa knew it was due to more than the heat of the fire. “Do not interrupt me.” She took a short moment before continuing, “Jon would never say any of this to me. Just like all of my councilors, he seems to fear the ‘Dragon’. He entertains me only to tame me.” Daenerys’s brows twisted just barely, but it was enough to once again reveal the vulnerability underneath Daenerys’s icy exterior. For the first time, Sansa remembered that Daenerys was just a girl just barely older than herself. Fire may not hurt Daenerys, but people still could.

            Daenerys put a hand to her stomach. Sansa’s stomach dropped. “I do not know if Jon told you. I did not even tell him until I knew I would lose him if I did not.” Daenerys poured herself another drink as she spoke and took another slug. “I lost the baby. Maybe it was never really mine to lose in the first place. I am sure Lord Baelish told you about the curse. _‘When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child._ _Then he will return, and not before.”_ The hand upon Daenerys’s stomach tightened into a fist. “Jon thought that maybe the curse was a lie. I thought…well, it does not matter what I thought. Two mornings ago whatever I thought was there was lost.

           “Jon was relieved. He would never say it—He is far too honorable to ever show his disgust, but I know that he was revolted by the potential of our child. Completely revolted.” She took another guzzle and lowered the goblet onto the table. The soft slam of the gold goblet hitting the wooden desk resounded through the suddenly quiet room.  

            Sansa thought of how Daenerys hovered around Jon. She recalled how he recently seemed to ignore her. She realized why Daenerys had not dared to head to battle. She remembered the awkwardness in the solar last night.

           “I should never have fallen for him. Loving him was the worst decision I have ever made. But still, I love him. More than any other man I have ever loved.”

            Sansa breathed. Her head was still spinning. Her stomach was still twisted.

            “Sansa Stark. Kissed by fire. A true Northerner. Beautiful. Benevolent. Brave. A perfect lady. If given the chance, you could be a remarkable queen." Daenerys's stare felt as though it would sear all the way to Sansa’s bones. Daenerys's knuckles whitened around her glass.

           “Maybe in another life, but I am content with 'Lady of Winterfell.'” Daenerys’s lips locked together tightly. Sansa was glad to see Daenerys's grip on the glass loosen a little.

           "You are just like him. In honor and in beauty. I can see why he loves you, but I need you to let him go. I need you to let me have him.”

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this far! I love you guys. Thank you so much for all the kind comments. They're what keep me going:). This entire fic was inspired by the song Jolene by Dolly Parton, and I think this chapter finally reveals that. I recommend blasting that song right after reading this. Anyways, thanks again for all your feedback and kudos. Hope you keep reading.


	7. Sparring HEart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa fears the consequences of Daenerys's revelations. Daenerys leaves Sansa with a choice to make. Arya and Jon speak for the first time since he arrives, but it goes very, very wrong.

         Sansa was not surprised by Daenerys’s accusations of insubordination. Sansa was not so silent with her contempt. And as much as it worried her, she had long since learned to dodge threats like this, but the second accusation was different. It rivaled her Aunt Lysa’s. Many times Sansa feared for her and her family’s well-being but with an allegation like this, she feared for all of their lives.

         Except, Sansa realized, the look in Daenerys’s eyes was not that of craze. Aunt Lysa had been in a total manic state when she tried to push Sansa from the Moon Door. No, this was different. There was a nakedness in Daenerys’s revelation but it appeared to be made not by doubt and fear but by truth and anguish. Daenerys’s eyes were sad, the skin on her face was pulled tight but appeared smooth, almost tranquil in her knowledge.

         You have no need to answer me this moment, but without the risk of the babe, there is no reason for our armies to loiter. Jon and I will leave by nightfall tomorrow for the Wall.” Sansa could have guessed this after the reveal of the pregnancy and its death, but it still shocked her. Jon, who had chosen his honor over saving Robb’s life, who had betrayed his home for the threat of the white walkers, Jon who lived for his duty and honor, consented to wait to stop the threat simply because of his unborn bastard. And, he never even bothered to tell her. And, what of her other revelation? “I know your loyalty lies far greater to your home than to your heart. That is why I know in the end you will listen.”

         Sansa imagined a world in which Daenerys’s revelations about Jon’s love had any backing. A world where she ran through the gray courtyard to find a beaming Jon who was indeed in love with her. A world where Jon would embrace Sansa in a thousand gentle kisses and promise her that if they remained together everything would be safe, happy even. She imagined a world where she could somehow erase the memories of her and Ramsey’s wedding in the Godswood with a far more pleasant one.

          _Somehow._ Sansa thought of how Jon would be leaving her possibly forever to fight the White Walkers. She thought of Jon’s dead bastard. She thought of how he had laid in the Dragon’s Queens arms. He must have looked at Daenerys with the same eyes she wanted Jon to look at herself. She imagined a world in which Daenerys had no love. A world in which Daenerys left the North defenseless. A world where Daenerys lacked the support of the North and the support of the rest of Westeros. A world in which the Dragon Queen was no queen at all.  She imagined how dangerous fire could be without ice to tame it.

         Daenerys stood. Sansa was glad to be done with the conversation. Sansa knew the feeling of being trapped far too well, although it had been a long time since she knew no way to escape. There were no words she could speak that would not tighten the walls Daenerys placed around her.

         Daenerys moved to the door and did not look back. Sansa did not move. As the door opened, Sansa caught sight of the Spider and her former husband. Their faces looked worried and almost sympathetic. Sansa did not know whether they were feeling for her, their Queen, or both.

         The door creaked shut. Sparks from the fire landed on the wooden floor as if yearning for its fiery queen. An aching, heavy breath filled Sansa’s chest and shakily sighed out. Delicate fingers smoothed back the carefully tucked red wisps of her hair. Even as she stood to her full height, she felt as small as a child. Sansa had not been so played by a queen since her youth.

         She exited the dreadful chamber. Her feet took her through a series of rooms and passages that within moments took her back to the courtyard. The freezing air helped slow the rapid pace of her heart.

         Her eyes immediately took her to Jon. As the cold winter sun shone down upon him, he truly was radiant. Black mane gleaming with snow and sweat. In his hands, the dull training sword even seemed to glow. Jon seemed like Jon again. He was Winterfell’s. He was hers.

         She needed to tell Jon about Jaime. Sansa would not admit it to herself, but she also wanted to test the waters of Daenerys’s words. Did she want it to be truth or simply madness? The truth could bring her happiness, maybe. A silly smile almost came to her lips at the thought. But even more than that came a terrible fear, dread. _Oh, Jon._

         Jon was the one who put them all in this situation. He had chosen to bed the Dragon Queen. Any reliance Daenerys now had on him stemmed from whatever he allowed to happen while he was away from Winterfell. Even if he did in fact love Sansa, he had also to feel for Daenerys. Did his Targaryen blood make him think that this polygamy was acceptable? Or was Daenerys right, had the revelation of his parentage ended Jon’s love for the Dragon Queen? And if it had, if incest stopped his love for Daenerys, how had he ever begun to love Sansa? He did not. He could not. Sansa’s chest tightened. She focused on the snow. Slushy, disgusting, putrid gray, but even as she saw this she witnessed the fresh snow cover it and make it almost new.

         Sansa neared Jon as he began yet another sparring match. He never stopped. Honor, duty, and a thousand other things pushed him constantly forward. This time though, she was surprised to find his opponent was far more advanced than the green boys he had been so adamantly training. Arya approached him carrying her sharpened Needle.

         The idea of her family together once against pleased her. Since the day Jon returned, Arya had not neared him. Had Arya not so enigmatically approached her this morning, Sansa would almost smile at the sight, but instead, she fisted her hands in anticipation. Something was off. Just by the odd gleam of Arya’s eyes, she would know it.

         Sansa watched as Jon teasingly looked upon his former sister. A sense of urgency and worriedness muddled his movements. He was acting like an exacerbated version of his old self. Sansa knew he missed Arya and their bond terribly. She almost pitied him for it. _Almost._ Jon seemed to think this sudden approach was a sign of Arya’s forgiveness. She could not hear it at this distance, but Sansa saw him shout something out something endearing to Arya. By the look on Arya’s face, her retort was colder than the wind.

         In a flash, Arya spun her Needle in a dance-like motion. Jon stood across from her, half smiling in pride. He held up his blade as he prepared for Arya’s blow. The clang of steel against steel that followed rang louder than all the other roaring winds, yelling men, swinging swords.

         Arya moved quickly. Her strokes swift and elegant. It amazed Sansa that someone could move so delicately in battle but not in needlepoint. Jon fought more traditionally. His movements were reminiscent of a fabled hero. She could almost hear his song. _Jon of fire, Jon of Snow, once King of the North, once bastard, once crow._

         Jon lifted his blade for a final pretending strike against Arya. She met this attempt by a firm block by her thin blade. Underneath the weight of Jon’s force and such a thick sword, one would imagine the thin Needle would at least quiver if not snap completely, but Arya’s sword remained firm. Sansa wondered how such a scrawny girl learned to be such a valiant warrior.  Arya pulled away then, her defensive spin all too beautiful for a fight. Within the elegance of the movement, Sansa missed the ugly gash it took out of Jon’s side. The only sound that emerged as Jon’s sword hit the snow was the grunt from his lips.  

         Sansa gasped. Her long legs quickly moved her towards Jon. She looked towards her sister. Sparring caused many injuries. Typically, they were limited to an abundant quantity of scabs and bruises easily healed by ale and rest. Occasionally, cuts and some more serious wounds would form along the bodies of green boys but never had Sansa seen such a gash by or against someone skilled. Especially someone as skilled as Jon and Arya. She gritted her teeth as she finally came upon Jon.

         Her hands tugged his away so that she could get a look at the wound. Blood coated the slushy snow at his feet. His face was opened in surprise maybe even shock. She wanted to stroke his cheek and comfort him but instead, she pressed her fingers against the wound. Blood roared against the palm of her hand and escaped around the ineffective dam of her hand. Her breath caught. She pressed down harder, and Jon winced. Sansa whispered a hurried apology just as he wrapped his hand around hers.   

         “ _Jon”_ Daenerys’s voice was strained like a fire under the rain. The skin that touched Jon’s ached.

         Tyrion moved forward towards the two of them with a handkerchief in hand. “For such a slight girl, your sister has quite some strength. Not so surprising when one remembers her House, but then again, what wolf would hurt its own?” As she pressed the handkerchief to Jon’s skin, she nearly admired the tenacious speed it turned scarlet. She did not bother to respond to Tyrion’s words. Partially because she would never condemn Arya and mostly because she herself did not know.

         Jon flinched at Tyrion’s words. Sansa wondered what was going through his head right now. She wondered if his chest ached or his throat burned or his eyes blurred with the pain of betrayal. _Does he feel how I felt? Does he want to sob or scream or scar someone as everyone has scarred him?_  

Sansa muttered a quick thank you to Tyrion before looking towards Daenerys. As Sansa turned, she expected to see a wildfire in Daenerys’s eyes raging towards her.  Sansa should not have been so quick to approach Jon. After her meeting with Daenerys, she knew it was dangerous. Instead, found that the Mother of Dragons was paying her no attention. Her eyes were cold, blurry from cold or pain Sansa was not certain, and directed towards Jon.

“I’ll go fetch Maester Wolkan” Sansa announced. She noticed how quiet the courtyard had become. It was terrible for morale to see Jon wounded. It was even worse to see the three of them warring. She shifted her body to prepare to quickly transfer pressure to Jon’s wound.

         Daenerys contradicted, “No, I will get the Maester.”

         Jon pressed Sansa’s hand firmer against him. Daenerys averted her eyes to the action and, without another word, turned away. Sansa thought that in the pale flurry, Daenerys’s hair made her appear almost headless. She brushed away the thought as she waited for Tyrion to follow his Queen. For a long moment though, he just stood there looking between Sansa, Jon, and his Queen. His eyes looked troubled and a bit irritated.

         Finally, as he turned away, Sansa looked back to Jon. His face had already begun to pale. His usually rose-kissed winter nose lost all of its color, but even so, his face was almost steady and surprisingly undeterred. Although, Sansa thought she could see more than just the pain of bleeding in the way Jon clenched his jaw. She tightened her fingers further against his side. The pressure leaked out a slow stream of blood the bubble of her hand was cupping.

         “I’ll need stitches,” Jon grunted.

         Sansa slipped her arm through and behind Jon. He leaned into her touch but carried his own weight as they began to stand. “Milk of the Poppy as well.”

         “It is not that serious, Sansa.” Jon looked at her. He appeared almost pleased by her seeming worry.

         “Maybe, but Daenerys tells me you two have gone through a lot these past couple of days. And that pain on top of this is nearly a fatal wound in itself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading! You guys are too kind. Thank you for all the kudos and comments; they are what keep me going. I love this story, and I hope you love it too. Things are really heating up between Daenerys, Jon, and Sansa. I'd love to hear your predictions and feelings in the comments! This chapter underwent a lot of revisions so sorry for the delay! It's a super important chapter, so I hope it came out as well as I intended it to.


	8. To Mend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Work is begun to heal Jon. Jon and Sansa get to talking.

            They did not speak another word on the slow march towards Jon’s chamber. As they walked through the door, they found Maester Wolkan already waiting inside. Daenerys was nowhere to be seen. A fact Sansa was all too grateful for.

            Maester Wolkman got to work immediately. His thick gray knuckles moved with a surprising deftness. In a swift tear, the thick bloody furs that covered Jon’s chest were ripped open. Sansa averted her eyes, but not quick enough to prevent the warmth the spread through her. She hoped the pink that rose to her cheeks could be dismissed by the cold, but deep down, Sansa knew Jon knew her far too well for her to hide that.

            Sansa had not seen Jon so exposed since they were children. She recalled an adolescent combination of pale skin and jutting bones. Now, it was as if his flesh and bones were reforged. Jon’s chest was taut with muscles and ragged scars. Thin shimmering, white lines from missteps and falls covered his skin like markings on a map. Deep purple ones covered his heart in such a violent way that it made Sansa’s breathe catch. And then there was the red gushing crater laid across the left side of his abdomen.

            “Here,” Jon tossed his ragged shirt towards Sansa. “Wipe your hands.” Sansa could not bear to meet Jon’s gaze, so she looked only at her hands. They were tinted in varying shades of vibrant scarlet and drying brown blood. Beneath her nails, all across her palms and fingertips, parts of Jon stained her. A shiver went down her spine.

            As the shirt fell into Sansa’s hands, she was surprised to find it was not all that bloody. Arya had cut Jon, so that, while he was most definitely hurt, he would most definitely heal. Arya had chosen to cut Jon, but fortunately, Arya did not want to cause him serious permanent damage. Sansa knew that once the crater closed, the scar would last for many years, but she remembered that wolves were accustomed to scars. Sansa rang her hands through the shirt and watched the Maester as he worked.

            Jon’s abdomen heaved beneath the winding needle. Ironic, she thought, Needle cuts and needle heals. Sansa felt as though she could feel the thin blade piercing her own skin. She put a hand to her own left side.

            Maester Wolkan’s work was no different from her needlepoint, but his hand was stiff and shaky from age. Far more so, at least, than her youthful one ever was. She itched to prove her handiwork. “My Lord,” The Maester began, “We must all thank the Gods for the lightness of your injuries. As long as you avoid infection and any strenuous activity for the next few days, soon, the stitches can be removed.”

            Jon attempted to sit up with a grunt and a wince, but Sansa's hand emerged firm, pressing him back down on the bed. “I must be ready to leave by—“

            “Tomorrow.” It was not the melodic unison of their voices combined that gave Jon a start. He tried to reach for Sansa, but she moved further from him again. Jon looked at her like a wounded dog. She set her jaw so tight her teeth could have shattered. Do not look at me this way. You kept this from me. “Daenerys plans to march to the wall.”

            The Maester looked questioningly to Sansa as if to ask if Jon knew of Jaime’s arrival an apparent day after that. If he knew would it stop him? Probably, but it would not stop Daenerys.

            “My Lord, my Lady, that is simply not possible. To leave Winterfell in this harsh of a winter, with the intent of fighting after your strenuous travels would only cause further injury.”

            Jon sighed audibly. The sound has a slight quiver to it. Whether it was from emotional or physical strain Sansa could not place. Jon stated rather requested. “Maester, will you leave us.”

            “Your stitches, my Lord. To leave them open would only leave a greater opening for infection—“

            “Sansa will close them.” This time, Jon’s voice was more requesting than certain. “I have seen her embroidery. I trust her hand.” He looked at her all too hopefully. How was that fair? His eyes bore so much weight upon her. Even in anger, she could not deny Jon. She swallowed and gave the slightest nod.

            “Aye, my Lord.” She closed her eyes as she waited a moment for the door to creak shut. When she opened them again, Jon was watching her, now propped further up on his pillows. If it was not for the slowing stream of blood leaking from his side, one could think him to just be groggy and stiff from a restless night’s slumber. His gaze upon Sansa made her want to squirm. The black thread that kept his body together glared at her as she positioned herself ready to settle beside him.   
“My hands are trained in fabric, not flesh. This will hurt more than the Maester’s hand would.”

            She had not been so near to him since he left. Since he had been Sansa’s Jon not hers. Heat radiated from his body, and for one of the few times, since winter had dawned, Sansa felt almost warm.

            “Do not worry. I can take it.” Jon announced. With a nod, Sansa sunk the needle into Jon’s taut skin. He sucked in a breath as she pierced him, reaching out suddenly for her elbow. It was the most intimate contact they had had in months. She felt as though his hand bore all the way through her bones.

            In a short moment, Jon had settled beneath her as she continued her stitching. Both his arm and his gaze never tore away from her. It was as if he feared he would never have the chance to touch her, to see her, to be with her again. Sansa was all too aware of the pace of her heart and rate of her breath.

            As Sansa finished her handiwork, Jon spoke abruptly as if to stop the moment from ending. His words, however, had the opposite effect.

            “You spoke to Daenerys.”

            “Aye,” Sansa turned her back to him, forcing Jon’s hand to fall away. She had to replace the Maester’s materials in his satchel. It was an excellent excuse to recompose herself. “She told me more in a quarter hour than you have in a fortnight.”

            “Sansa, what I did to the North—“

            “To the North? What about to me?” She snapped back to face him. Fire raging beneath ice blue eyes. “I knew it was hard for you to hear me contradict you in public, but that does not mean you get to cut out my ability to have any authority of my people’s future when you leave us behind.”

            “I am sorry. But you have to understand—“

            “ _Don’t_.” Sansa seethed. Tears of frustration blurred her eyes. She raised her chin in an attempt to maintain some semblance of power. “ _Do not_.”

            “Sansa, please just try to understand.”

            “I do understand. I understand what drives most men. I understand Daenerys is beautiful. I understand that bedding a Queen makes you a King. I understand that if she somehow is the key to getting us out of this hell alive you will be a legend by her side. But I also understand that you know nothing, Jon. I understand that you are led by far more than your honor. I understand that you clearly do not. You know nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

            Jon reached for Sansa’s wrist again. Suddenly, she does not have the strength to pull away. He searched for something in her eyes. Some ounce of empathy? Some possibility that she may grow to understand? Some inkling that they could go back to how they once were? “Sansa,” His voice was soft, quieter than the crackling of dying fire. Her lip quivers gently. A tear slips down her cheek. “Sansa.” Jon’s thumb wipes it away. His eyes glisten just as she imagined hers were.

            She wanted to lean into him. To lay curled around him beneath the covers. To feel the pressure of his body and feel the comfort she did when she held him against her that day so long ago at Castle Black. _Jon! Jon! My Jon!_

            Instead, she sucked in a shaking breath and moved to straighten her dress, forcing Jon’s arms to fall away.

            “She did this on purpose." Jon looked as though he almost admired the black embroidery on his skin. The contrast between his pale flesh and the black thread was almost as stark as the direwolf he wore across his chest sometimes. 

            Sansa wished she could comfort him, but she would not lie.

            "I cannot say I do not deserve it after all I have put the North through." Sansa remained quiet. "But if revenge is what Arya wanted, she is smart enough to seek it in ways that would not halt the defense of the North."

            Jon is right. Arya was brutal and fearsome enough to kill for the Stark name, but no matter what, Sansa knew deep down, Arya could never kill Jon. Even now, as a traitor, Jon was still Jon. He was Arya's favorite. He was who had given Arya Needle, the very blade Arya had used to cut Jon. Sansa knew Arya would never even hurt Jon unless Arya thought she absolutely had to.  But why would she have to? What would hurting Jon get them besides a bit more time waiting in Winterfell? 

            Sansa opened her mouth to tell Jon what she had come to the courtyard to announce, but something kept her voice quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are getting slower since school is getting harder. SORRY! I love you guys for continuing to read. This chapter was super fun to write, and I hope it was just as much fun to read. Do you think you know why Arya maimed Jon? Why do you think Sansa chose not to tell Jon about Jaime's upcoming arrival? Do you think Sansa will be able to trust Jon again? Stay tuned and leave love/critiques/your thoughts in the comments!


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